


It Wasn't an Option Back When They First Wrote the Rules

by Ramasi



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Mostly Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramasi/pseuds/Ramasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-between avoiding getting killed (or even getting into situations where he might possibly come into danger of getting killed), Methos has a few conversations with Joe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't an Option Back When They First Wrote the Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever this might look like at first sight, there's no actual plot here. Just a lot of talking, because there should have been a whole series about Methos sitting around drinking beer.

He was making his way towards the parking lot, bag of groceries under one arm, when he felt the presence. He slowed briefly.

"Methos," someone called behind him. Male voice, deep, a little breathless, but nonetheless confident.

Not a voice he knew. He kept walking.

He'd almost reached his car when someone laid a hand on his shoulder from behind. He turned slowly, threw a cursory glance around. An elderly woman was just putting her groceries into the trunk just out of earshot. Voices of children screaming carried over to them from farther away, and a new car was just rolling in, one row removed from his. No danger.

The hand fell down.

"Methos," the man said again. He sounded very sure of himself, too.

Methos repressed a sigh and glanced up at the stranger. Taller than him, short, curly black hair; thirty perhaps, not bad looking, if a bit bulky. Eyes dark, hard to read.

"What about him?" Methos asked.

The man gave no immediate answer; he drew his coat aside, briefly letting him see the sword.

"Fight me," the man said.

Methos snorted out a disbelieving half-laugh.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Alex Anetti," the man answered reluctantly.

"Well, it was nice meeting you." Deliberately, he turned his back to the other immortal, opened his door. The man looked confused now.

"You can't ignore a challenge," he called, sounding really young.

"Watch me," Methos muttered, without turning round.

By the time he was starting the engine, the stranger's confused looked had changed to a glare.

* * *

"I don't know," Joe said.

The bar was empty safe for that one visitor, who was sprawled in a chair not far from the bar, drowning a third glass of vodka. Joe supposed immortal healing made drunkenness harder, too. He put the glass he'd been cleaning down, and made his way around the bar, standing behind Methos.

The latter turned towards him, a disbelieving look on his face.

"What? You know, you still owe me for –"

"No," Joe interrupted him. "I actually _don't know_. The guy is not in our database."

Methos turned back round, slightly appeased.

"He's probably using a fake name."

"There isn't supposed to be anyone who fits the description in Paris." Methos tapped a finger against his glass, irritated. "Maybe he's new."

"If he's new, why is he challenging me?" Methos snapped. "For all he knows I've got five thousand years of experience."

Behind him, Joe shrugged, sat down laboriously himself.

"Are you sure he knows who you are?"

" _He_ seemed sure."

Joe sighed. There was a pause.

"You're leaving, then," he said.

Methos laid his head back into his neck delicately.

"You got a Watcher on him _now_?"

Joe glared at the back of the other man's head. He knew exactly what Methos meant.

"We're not your private spy network, Adam."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Methos said, sounding resentful.

Joe stared at him.

"What are...?"

"Never mind," Methos said, and pushed his glass away, half-empty, before standing up. "See you around, then."

Joe looked after him. He wasn't sure he would.

* * *

He was relieved when the door opened that evening. It had been two days, and he hadn't been sure Methos would still be there, and even after his message he hadn't been sure he would come.

"What is it?" Methos snapped, without preamble, sitting down in front of a table, not the usual relaxed stance, all business.

"Drink?" Joe offered.

Methos glanced up, suspicious, then nodded. Joe went to fill a glass.

"So," Methos asked, after a few gulps. "You found something after all?"

"Yes," Joe said grimly. "Marianne Desoney has been killed."

Methos scolded his expression into one of sympathy.

"Friend of yours?"

Joe shook his head.

"She was Anetti's new Watcher."

Methos opened his mouth, closed it.

"That was fast," he murmured. He put down his glass. "You think he killed her?"

"I know he did," Joe said grimly.

"What? How?"

"He left a message." He drew the copy he'd made from his pocket and handed it to Methos without a comment.

Methos looked it over.

"This isn't good."

"No."

"It doesn't have my name on it."

"He challenged you two days ago," Joe said dejectedly. "Of course he means you."

"How could he have known this would get back to me?" He made a dismissive hand-gesture. "He's probably reaching."

"Adam..."

The immortal held up his hands.

"It doesn't matter, I managed to get a plane ticket for tomorrow, by midnight I'll be on another continent."

Joe pushed himself off the table he'd been leaning against, and walked around Methos to stand right in front of him.

"You can't leave now." Methos looked up at him with innocent confusion. "He's going to kill more people if you don't meet him."

"People," Methos said, in a forceful tone that clearly got across that this was a _rather important detail_ , "who are _not me_. Look," he added, defensively, when Joe opened his mouth to protest. "This is _not_ my fault."

Joe was about to disagree, then thought better of it. They both turned away for a moment. Joe stared at a wall.

"I didn't say it was," he managed, softly. "But you can stop it."

Methos heaved a sigh, looked up at the ceiling. For a moment, Joe thought he'd won.

"You got a new Watcher on him?" Methos asked after a moment, voice neutral.

"Yes," Joe said tightly. "She's a friend."

"A friend," Methos repeated, in a tone that suggested he was questioning Joe's sanity. "So, in other words, you know where he is right now. You know where he'll be tomorrow at midnight." He held up his palms.

Joe gave the immortal an exasperated look, turning away. All right, he got it.

"You know we can't."

"Right, so you can't break your oath, but I'm supposed to put my life on the line."

"Even if I wanted to," Joe snapped, throwing away all pretence at patience, because really, Methos _knew_ this. "I couldn't, the others wouldn't follow through."

"M-hm," Methos made, as if Joe had somehow proved his own point, then gave him a rather vicious smile. " _I'm_ not your private vigilant justice."

"My p – This isn't _about_ justice. He's threatening –"

"I. Don't. Care."

Joe glared at him, stopped, took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"It's not like you can't win a fight."

"Joe," Methos said, holding up a hand, two fingers joined to a small circle, punctuating his words, "you want to live for five thousand years, you don't go to any duelling rendezvous." He spat out the last two words like the mere idea was derisive. "Especially if the other guy sets the time and place." He dropped his hand. "He's obviously a maniac, who's to say he won't, I don't know, set a bomb at the –" He broke off, turned his eyes upwards in thought, as if the bar's ceiling was going to provide heavenly inspiration. His tongue darted out.

"Methos," Joe said slowly, "you're not –"

Methos held up his hand in a familiar "quiet" gesture. Joe paused, but clearly it hadn't been an immortal presence, for after a moment Methos got to his feet. He smiled at him, disagreement apparently forgotten.

"I'll see you later."

Joe stared after him.

* * *

"Who's calling you at a time like this?" Methos asked, from where he was lounging on the chair, pulling a potato chip from the packet he'd brought along. He looked cheerful.

It was past two o'clock in the morning, so, in a sense, fair question.

"The hospital," Joe said, closing up his phone. "Sophie got several deep splinters from an explosion." He glared at Methos' profile.

"Uh." Methos grimaced in sympathy, and ate another chip. "Who's she?"

"She was Anetti's new Watcher." Joe didn't manage to sound quite as resentful as he'd meant to: he was glad; he didn't think he could have lived with it if something _had_ happened to the oldest immortal. It was just, years with Duncan MacLeod hadn't quite prepared him for _this_.

"Oh." Methos looked down briefly, then conceded to glance up at him, looking almost guilty. "It was a closed space, the quickening alone could have sent things flying."

"There _was_ a quickening?" Joe asked. "I thought you'd have been miles away when it happened."

Methos gave a small shrug, clearly not offended.

"I had to make sure. You know, legs blown to pieces, head still intact." He shuddered. "You never know."

Joe shook his own head. There was a pause.

"How did you even _have_ a bomb?" he snapped.

"I have connections," Methos said lightly, then glanced up and amended: "Kronos. Had connections."

"Kronos."

"Mm."

"You never told me what happened there."

"I thought MacLeod told you."

"Yes, he did." He was silent. "You left the Watchers afterwards."

"Yes," Methos answered, glancing down at his lap, then put the chips away and went for his glass.

"What happened?"

Methos looked down.

"I don't want to talk about it." He gave him a look. "Maybe some other time, okay?"

"All right." A pause. "I'm glad you made it."

Methos gave him a sunny smile.

"Thanks, Joe. How's your friend, then?"

"She'll be fine, it's just painful."

"Sorry about that." Methos yawned. "I'll be leaving. Think they'll reimburse my ticket?"

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Guess not," Methos muttered.

* * *

"I talked to MacLeod," Joe said, when Methos waltzed in right after closing time, and sat down by the bar.

"Hm?" Methos said, distracted. "He's back?"

Joe replaced a bottle.

"He says he wants you to pick up your dirty laundry, or he's going to throw it out."

Methos rolled his eyes.

"I told him about Anetti," Joe went on.

"Aha," Methos said absently.

"And he said he could talk to Amanda, and she might be able to find something out about him. Figure out how he knew."

"Really?" Methos turned round to give him a surprised look. "That's really..." He looked on thoughtfully. " _Nice_." He seemed to taste out the word.

"Why wouldn't we be nice?" asked Joe, slightly offended.

"Oh," Methos quickly held up a hand. "I'm not complaining."

"Right," said Joe, with a dark look.

"So. Drinks?"

"You should start paying for them," Joe said, even as he got out a glass and a beer.

"You're closed."

"So what?"

"It's a social call. You get free drinks."

Joe shook his head at him.

"Would you even be here if I didn't have a bar?"

Methos turned to look at him, surprised.

"I like you," he said easily.

Joe gave him an odd look, then shook his head and filled the glass. Methos smiled at him sweetly as he took it.

"You never told me why you left the Watchers," Joe said, after a moment of silence, leaning over the counter.

"No," Methos said, then met his eyes. "All right, it was." He waved the hand that held the glass around dangerously. "When Kronos cornered me in Seacouver, Melvin Koren was _supposed_ to be back in Europe."

"So what?" asked Joe, slowly, confused. "You lost faith in the whole organisation?"

Methos paused for a moment, like he hadn't thought about it this way before.

"Yes. You could say that."

"He didn't have a Watcher on him at the time – you've been with us for over ten years. You knew we couldn't keep track of _everything _."__

"Yes, well, it didn't seem worth the effort anymore," Methos snapped.

"Ah." Joe thought for a moment. "I see. MacLeod," he added, "thinks you planned the whole thing."

Methos had a faint, self-depreciating smile.

"I guess maybe that's flattering."

"You didn't?"

Methos smiled and gave no answer.

* * *

Joe didn't protest when the immortal put his feet on the table. He'd have to clean it later anyway. Methos went through the files Amanda left them for the third time; Joe wasn't sure he was actually reading them; it was pretty dark.

Eventually, Joe made his way around the bar, and sat down by the same table, looking at Methos' face, half-hidden in the shadows.

"Well?"

"It might not go any further," Methos admitted. The files told the story of a mixture of circus attraction and detective agency, specialised on uncovering connections between people. Not that Methos didn't hate the hazards that came with psychic powers, but if that was all there was to it, it could mean there wasn't an actual, wider breech.

"He can't have been immortal for much more than five years," Joe remarked.

"All right," Methos said, without looking up, catching his meaning. "I _probably_ would have won the fight. There's no guaranty," he added, in a quiet mutter.

"I don't understand it," Joe murmured, after a moment.

Methos glanced up, vary.

"What?"

"Why did he challenge you?"

Methos shrugged, looked back down at the files.

"You just died, and suddenly people you've never even heard of turn up and try to cut your head off for no reason. You get desperate."

He sounded wistful. Joe narrowed his eyes at him.

"I thought you didn't remember," he said, curious.

"No. I'm just guessing."

"Hm," Joe said. "You know, if you did want to join again, I could help."

Methos looked at him, cocked his head. Suddenly, he smiled.

"Are you worried for me?"

Joe shrugged, feeling defensive.

"You weren't bad at it." He thought this over. "Aside from finding out anything new about Methos."

"Hey. I got a few clues." Joe just gave him a long look. "They _could_ have had some truth to them." Incertitude washed over his face. "It was plausible, wasn't it?"

"Someone let you keep the case," Joe admitted.

Methos smiled happily, looking deceptively young.

"Thanks, Joe."


End file.
